I cried today when my lover held me in his arms and I am not sure why because we have held each other like that a thousand thousand times before and oh yes, that's why I cried- at the sudden and very clear realization that one day there will be no us, holding each other, there just won't be and that is the truth and there have been so many lovers holding each other a thousand thousand times or once, at least, and no longer can they.
I seem to be so easily tipped into tears these days. It's like the older I get, the less I want to fool around with that which isn't of the most profound and genuine and those things, my friends, are the things that make you cry.
Or at least me.
I found two eggs in my garden today. One very nice dark brown one at the end of the collard row and one lighter brown one under a mustard leaf, like a baby under a cabbage leaf if you look at it a certain way. A chicken way. My hens did not lay these eggs so the hens from next door must have left them as freely given gifts in exchange for the greens I'm sure they nipped, the small bugs they scratched from the soft black dirt. I gave both eggs the float test and they passed with flying colors and stayed firmly on the bottom of the bowl, indicating their freshness and we will eat them with great pleasure.
We set our clocks up an hour tonight and once again prove how incredibly bizarre human beings are. Never satisfied with time the way it is, or at least the way we say it is, and we must fiddle with it, pushing it forward and backward, pretending we are in charge, in control of that which we are not. Another meaningless, pointless ritual and we'll all be a mess for weeks although as I always point out, the chickens will have no confusion about it at all nor will the cardinals or hawks or pea plants or fishes, great and small in the vast blue seas.
But oh, I will.
Do you have conversations in your head like this?
"Let's see. The clock says it's eight thirty but really it's seven thirty and so it's dark later but tomorrow when I get up it will be light later or am I getting that wrong?"
And so forth.
As if life wasn't hard enough already.
Which is why we need things like good, clean sheets and flowers in the hallway and poached eggs on toast with a little butter and salt and pepper, and babies to kiss and Beethoven and really, really good books and poetry and art and a lover's hand to hold on to and an ocean to gaze upon to put it all into perspective and to soothe us like a mother's heartbeat, and friends we can tell our most secret hearts to and hot and cold running water and good soap and some of us need giant, poodley dogs and some of us need warm purring cats and all of us need love.
Every damn one of us. Even when it makes us cry.
Especially when it makes us cry.